


The beast you made in me

by amberfox17



Category: Loki: Agent of Asgard, Thor (Comics), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Bruises, Consent Issues, Dark Thor, Dubious Consent, Identity Issues, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possession, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 22:50:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1566908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternative version of the events of Loki: Agent of Asgard #1. Or, teen Loki crosses a dark!possessed!Thor and proceeds to trick him into doling the punishment Loki knows he deserves. A darker take on both the new Loki and the possessed Thor.<br/><i>“Would you believe me if I said I was here to save your soul?” Loki asks, the truth tripping off his tongue to the same rhythm as his sweetest lies. My, my, things have changed.</i><br/><i>“I would not believe a single word that falls from your deceitful lips,” Thor growls, flushing a deep red and fairly thrumming with energy, the muscles in his arms bunching and flexing as he drops Mjolnir to the floor and begins to stalk towards Loki.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The beast you made in me

**Author's Note:**

> _I smell…a shifty little rat. Come here, rat._

“And a good evening to you too, brother,” Loki says with his most winsome smile, and ducks as Mjolnir whistles over his head and slams back into Thor’s palm with a meaty slap.

“What evil are you planning now, liesmith?” Thor snarls, face twisted with rage and drink, and Loki sidesteps the broken glass of the window – really, a much more dramatic entrance than he had planned – and begins to circle closer, affecting a nonchalance he most certainly does not feel.

It is foolish in the extreme to confront Thor so, even with Gram only a whisper away, the sword of truth tucked neatly into a pocket-space fold of his delightful new coat: the evil that has taken hold of his brother has grown like a cancer within him, pushing him from boor to brute to beast entire. It would be better by far to draw in the other Avengers currently idling away their time in games and sports, to use them as a distraction and a stop-gap, to have them soak up some of Thor’s irrational fury while Loki proceeds with his plans.

But somehow, Thor had sensed him as he climbed the tower’s sheer walls, and sent him a welcome present in the form of Mjolnir’s blunt head; Loki had judged it prudent to follow the hammer’s path back through the broken window rather than let himself fall, and so finds himself bearding the lion in his den a little ahead of schedule. It seems that the best spellcraft of Svartalfheim is not enough to keep Thor’s attention away from him after all.

It is not an entirely unwelcome outcome.

“Would you believe me if I said I was here to save your soul?” Loki asks, the truth tripping off his tongue to the same rhythm as his sweetest lies. My, my, things _have_ changed.

“I would not believe a single word that falls from your deceitful lips,” Thor growls, flushing a deep red and fairly thrumming with energy, the muscles in his arms bunching and flexing as he drops Mjolnir to the floor and begins to stalk towards Loki. This much is familiar, from the oldest of days, and inevitably preceded a brawl or bar fight…or some other form of entertainment for Asgard’s bullish Prince.

“I will not have your filthy lies in this house,” Thor continues, lip curling as he looks Loki up and down. “You are nothing but a dog, little brother, a whinging, mangy cur forever at my heels, snapping at all who have ever shown you a scrap of affection. I should have put you out of your misery long ago.”

There is a part of Loki that twists in pain at these words, at the tone, so reminiscent of their dear Allfather, and also of the part of him that often whispers similar thoughts, that has him choking on air, gagging on a sudden glut of feathers and the taste of bird’s blood on his tongue. But he is well practised at ignoring these things and besides, none know better than him the feel and shape of a lie, the pricking goad of a familiar narrative, the bait and switch of desire and deed. Even so corrupted as he is as this moment, Thor must work himself up to what he wants to do, must convince himself that Loki deserves the punishment he longs to wreak on his tender flesh.

There is the broken window behind him; there is a space just large enough still between where he circles and where Thor is driving forward that he could make a run for it, could slip past Thor and dart out the open door behind him. Gram’s hilt hovers just at his fingertips, ready to be willed into play, and he has half a dozen other exit strategies of varying design. He could, at any moment, scream in terror and have the other Avengers come rushing to investigate; despite their chequered past, he knows their brand of heroism well enough to be confident that they would protect him from Thor as he is now, whatever doubts they might harbour about his trustworthiness as a witness.

He is not trapped. It is his move, and his choice.

Plan B it is then.

“You are not yourself,” Loki says, sliding his coat from his shoulders and draping it over a chair, to ensure the expensive spellwork remains intact, fully aware of the way Thor’s eyes narrow and track over his body. He reaches again for the truth, a truly double-edged weapon. “Think about what you are saying, what you are doing. You are cursed, but I know how to help you.”

“You lie,” Thor spits in response, closing fast, and Loki braces himself, stands his ground as Thor towers over him, huge and angry and immensely powerful. Thor’s arms alone are thicker than Loki’s own head, and while he is stronger and faster than he looks, he has never been his brother’s equal in brute strength – no-one is, and he shudders a little as anticipation licks along his spine, animal instinct pushing him to fight or run, to do something as Thor’s vast bulk overshadows him and his meathook hands jerk forward to grab Loki by his mailed shirt and drag him forward.

“You will shut your lying mouth,” Thor says roughly, and Loki grabs at his wrists to steady himself, teetering on his toes as Thor hauls him up.

“Brother,” Loki says earnestly, looking up at Thor from beneath his lashes, heart hammering in his breast. He must play this just so, or all will fall apart in his hands. “Please. Just -”

“Be silent,” Thor roars, shaking him like a terrier shakes a rat; “and know your place, mongrel.”

Thor is truly not himself, and that makes him both unpredictable and dangerous. But dancing on the edge of catastrophe is one of Loki’s signature moves, after all.

Loki lets his lips part as he arches into Thor’s grip. “Thor!” he gasps, wide-eyed and trembling, threading his voice with pain and fear.

Thor jerks as if slapped and just for a moment, something shifts in his face, his eyes. “Loki,” he says, the words rasping from his throat, thick and awkward. “Run. I cannot -”

“Trust me,” Loki says, squeezing Thor’s wrists in what he hopes is a comforting manner. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Run,” Thor manages again, but he’s choking on it, face twisting back into pure, blind fury, and Loki lets himself feel a pang of guilt at what he is about to do to his brother, savours the razor sharp edge of it, the bleeding conscience and the corrosive, dripping regret, and then he bundles it all up and tosses it over his shoulder. No point crying over spilt blood, after all.

“Deceiver,” Thor spits at him, grip tightening further, and Loki whimpers as his shirt begins to tear under the strain, fire flaring along his calves and spine as he teeters on tip-toe in Thor’s shadow. Thor’s nostrils flare at the sound and his eyes narrow, and there, right there, is what he has been waiting for.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, calling up a few fat tears to sweeten the deal. “Don’t hurt me, Thor, please – I’ll do anything, anything you want, just don’t hurt me.”

“I ought to kill you now,” Thor growls, so full of bluster and threat, but when Loki lets the tip of his tongue flicker over his bottom lip, Thor mirrors the movement almost instantly, and he shifts his stance, spreads his legs almost imperceptibly wider.

“Please forgive me,” Loki says, wondering whether to flutter his eyelashes, or if that would be overkill. “I can – I’ll do anything you say, I swear it.”

“Your word is worthless, just as you are,” Thor replies, but the seed has been planted and Loki can see it taking root, see the tendrils of want unfurling and spreading through Thor’s mind, binding his rage and twisting it to desire.

“ _Please_ ,” Loki begs and he sees the sudden burst of anguish in Thor’s eyes just before he is thrown to the floor, landing heavily and suddenly entirely without his shirt. It’s tattered remains fall from Thor’s hands like so much shredded paper, mail torn apart just as easy as silk. It’s a good thing he was a wardrobe full of them.

Thor tugs his own tunic over his head and tosses it carelessly aside before advancing on him, already busy undoing his thick belt. “Get on your knees,” he says and Loki scrambles to obey, positioning himself between Thor’s enormous thighs and craning his head back so he can look up at Thor’s flushed face.

This is the Thor the Loki that burned remembers: the arrogant young prince, full of swagger and certainty, quick to reach out and simply take what was due, confident in the knowledge that his due was everything and anything he wanted in all the nine realms. In their youth, it was often Loki he reached for, in affection and in anger, and he was always frantic and rough and that Loki loved and hated it in equal measure.

This Loki thinks: _at last_ , careful to keep his satisfaction tucked away behind his mask of penitence. Thor has been so gentle with him in this body, so kind, so caring and so frustratingly careful, always aware of how much smaller and frailer Loki is now, always seeking to be a better man than he was before.

Loki is sick to the back teeth of it.

The part of him that remembers the old Thor hungers for that old passion, of having the heart of the storm unleashed upon him, Thor incapable of restraint or good sense, every scrap of attention focused solely on Loki, as terrifying and glorious as a lightning strike. The part of him that clings desperately to the love Thor offers so freely and so sincerely does so with a gibbering terror of what will happen when Thor discovers his treachery, when he rejects him, as he will, as he must, when he finally realises that this Loki slaughtered his own innocence, that the child he cherished is dead and gone.

He hopes to mend the faultline in himself, eventually; though he cannot undo, he can rewrite, for he has wielded both pen and sword before, and will do again and again until he creates a shape for himself he can bear to live in. But for now? What both shadows in his mind agree upon is that he neither deserves nor desires Thor’s gentleness. He is due a punishment, if not yet a reckoning, and he has been longing for Thor to deliver one.

“Open your mouth, little slut,” Thor snarls and Loki does, heart fluttering with joy. This is the tale he would have written, given the chance, and this is the role he chooses to play, confident that it does not have the terrible gravity of his old story. That Loki would never have knelt willingly, would have fought and forced Thor to break him, rather than bend.

This Loki is rather more flexible in many ways and looks forward to proving it.

Not that there’s any finesse required on his part right now, since Thor has only one thing on his mind: having freed his thoroughly impressive hard-on from his leather trousers, he takes it in one hand and grabs Loki by the back of his head with the other. Loki lets him drag him forward, obligingly opening his mouth as wide as he can and doing his best not to choke as Thor’s thick cock slides in until it hits the back of his throat. It’s all he can do to breathe with such a huge cock stretching his lips so wide and he pants harshly through his nose, whimpering slightly as the tears in his eyes break and trickle down his swollen cheeks.

It has a definite effect on Thor, who groans and twists his fingers even tighter in Loki’s hair as he fucks into his mouth. His thighs bracket Loki’s head like tree trunks, and as Loki flicks his eyes up, Thor looks even bigger from this position, looming over him like a mountain, like a giant, or the Avenger’s emerald beast who likes to pretend he’s still a man. Loki gulps, throat fluttering as he imagines a Thor just as brutish and savage as those monsters, a Thor who really would tear him apart; perhaps if he were truly broken, he might be able to put himself back together with only the better parts, might be able to gather up the worst in his hands and finally, finally wash himself clean of and with his own blood…

This is not the time, he thinks furiously, gagging more on the false taste of copper rising in his throat than the cock so deliciously fat and forceful in his mouth. But still, Thor checks, though it seems in irritation rather than concern.

“Can’t handle anything but lies on your tongue?” Thor sneers as he pulls out, glowering down at Loki as he coughs a shade theatrically and wipes his swollen lips. “Very well.”

He yanks Loki up by his hair, ignoring Loki’s yelps, and drags him across the room with only the one hand, heedless of Loki’s pitiful struggles and the way his heels catch on the carpet. Thor effortlessly throws his so-very- _little_ brother onto the kitchen worktop, the marble cold under Loki’s back and then abruptly cold and wet across his front as Thor spins him over and pins him face down, legs and ass dangling free, the forgotten tankard of mead now spilling across the smooth surface and pooling under Loki’s chest and scrabbling fingers.

There a distinctive ripping sound as Thor destroys Loki’s trousers and really, he ought to send him a bill, for this new wardrobe was not cheap. Boots, horns and gloves are all he has left now and save for the few time-saving charms that let him pull Gram from pocket-space, he is just about out of tricks that won’t cost him something of his sanity – or soul – to get himself free.

It’s a good thing Loki doesn’t want to go anywhere.

“Thor!” he yelps, quivering with excitement and adrenalin and the coolness of the tower’s air-conditioning across his bare skin. Thor slaps his ass, hard, in response.

“Whore,” he snarls. “Hungry little slut,” and there’s more, vile insults spilling from him as his big hands squeeze painfully at Loki’s stinging flesh, words Thor would never use were he in his right mind, words that Loki remembers, dimly, as once being some of his favoured insults for Sif and Sigyn and the ladies of Asgard. He has always harboured a burning fear and a knife-sharp longing to hear them turned against him by his perfect, golden brother.

Loki wails, heart hammering, frantic, desperate, straining to part his legs even as Thor sinks blunt fingers into his soft flesh, bruises no doubt blooming like inky flowers on his ivory skin, their dull ache a sweet promise of more to come. “Please,” he chokes, “please, Thor, please!”

“Please what?” Thor asks, yanking Loki’s legs apart and pressing himself between his thighs, tugging and shoving Loki over the counter until he is in exactly the right position, his wet cock bumping along the crease of Loki’s ass. “Please stop? Or please give you the fucking you are so desperate for?”

“Fuck me,” Loki moans, too close to victory now to care for any play, throwing his faith behind the truth just for this moment. “Oh, Thor, fuck me, fuck me -”

Thor leans over him, letting his weight settle on Loki’s back, bearing him down on to the counter, trapping him beneath Thor’s bulk. It’s like being crushed by a furnace, all heat and solid steel, and Loki can barely breathe for the thrill of it. “I’d break you in two if I fucked you like this,” Thor rumbles and Loki can feel the words vibrating in his chest, feel Thor’s heartbeat thumping against his own spine. “And I mean to do more than that. So get yourself nice and wet for me. You were always good for these filthy little tricks.”

I had to be, part of Loki thinks, rage exploding like a supernova, because you wouldn’t wait for anyone or anything, just expected me to do the work for you, instantly ready every time you pawed at me, fresh from battle and eager for me to – but the other part is already muttering, already grinding a little against the sticky worktop as phantom fingers slide inside, as he sighs at the strange sensation of being slicked from the inside, of being opened and stretched but not filled, just as eager and hungry as Thor.

Lust and fury have him writhing as Thor straightens back up and grips him tightly by the hips, lifting him up a little so he can press his cock against Loki’s wet hole and push in with none of the care and gentleness he has been using with this new body.

It is _glorious_.

Every nerve in Loki’s body is shrieking as his body struggles to accept Thor’s cock so suddenly. It feels impossibly vast as Thor mercilessly shoves into Loki’s body, and Loki screams as he is filled up, as the feeling of being split open throbs through him, skittering on the edge of pain and exactly what he wants, what he _needs_ as Thor seats himself fully, his balls slapping against Loki’s spasming thighs.

There are no words left in Thor now, neither insults nor orders, but he grunts like a bull as he jerks back and shoves in again, pure power and want, ignoring Loki’s ragged breaths and whimpers. He sets a punishing pace, fucking into Loki with the same careless ferocity as when he was fucking his mouth. Each thrust pushes Loki further up the counter until Thor shifts his grip to hold Loki by the back of the neck with one hand, the other hooked firmly around his hip and he holds him steady as he pounds into him, steady, jackhammer thrusts that have Loki wailing in pleasure.

He is entirely at Thor’s mercy and Thor is using him brutally, focused entirely on himself and the pleasure he finds in Loki’s flesh. Loki need do nothing, _be_ nothing, and must simply lie here and take it, impaled on Thor’s huge cock, body singing with the frenzy of it all, his own aching cock sliding in the honey-sweet mess on the counter. He cannot hope to touch himself and yet the girth of Thor’s cock means that he is seeing stars with every thrust, his body arching every time the fat cockhead drags over his prostate.

He’s like a doll in Thor’s grip, tiny and fragile and helpless, overwhelmed by the sheer size and power pounding into him, and if that is not actually true, well, it is a pleasing falsity and Loki pays more than lip service to it, lets the need and want and desire to be used and taken and owned by the elemental force housed in his brother’s skin wash over him, surrendering to Thor’s fury. He can barely catch his breath, the air from his lungs forced out by Thor’s relentless fucking, and so he cannot scream, can hardly moan, his cries weak and mewling and utterly heartfelt.

His thighs are throbbing where they are pressed too hard against the unforgiving counter, sinews burning from being spread so far apart to accommodate Thor’s bulk between them, and there’s a dull ache spreading from his spine, a delicious counterpoint to the white hot pleasure coiling deep within. He will be feeling this for _days_. Sweat is pooling between his shoulder blades, beneath his chest and over his back, and he can smell Thor’s own exertion, and the air is filled with the musk of their frantic fucking, raw and bitter against the sickly spilled mead.

He is close to coming, he realises dizzily, body winding ever tighter, driven on by the animalistic savagery Thor has unleashed upon him, by his own thrill at being used so, at the wrongness and perversion of their history and both their _redemptions_ , hah, as if they ever needed to be rescued from this, from the ecstasy of their most brutal couplings, all Thor’s goodness and gentleness stripped away to reveal his darkest heart, his oldest self, no better than Loki now, not as he ruts shamelessly and furiously into his little brother’s bruised flesh, a true berserker, careless of everything but Loki, wanting only Loki –

Loki comes with a breathless wail, body jerking wildly as he bucks, hips snapping forward violently, his come adding to the slick mess spreading over his chest. Thor snarls as he does so, and drives even harder into Loki’s twitching form, short, shallow thrusts, hips working furiously, and within moments he too is coming, emptying himself into Loki with a low grunt, body slumping over Loki as his cock continues to throb inside him.

Loki is wrung out and bruised and sore and blissfully happy. But Thor is not.

“You think I’m done with you?” he hisses, pulling out with a suddenness that has Loki wincing and then flipping him over with frightening speed. He’s still bent over Loki, caging him in, and now his hand is tight around Loki’s throat, his face mere inches away. “You think that was all I wanted from you? Your punishment is only beginning, you lying filth.”

Perhaps, Loki thinks. But I have had what I wanted from this you. And time is moving on, as always.

He widens his eyes and makes pitiful gasping noises as Thor’s grip tightens, flings his arms out and kicks feebly and even manages a few more tears. Thor grins wolfishly at his distress and opens his mouth for more threats. But Loki can feel Gram’s hilt in his outflung hand and with only a thought the sword is there, heavy and familiar in his palm and he swings it round, and clubs Thor hard in the side of the head. Thor roars but his grip slackens and it’s enough for Loki to drop the sword and wriggle free, fresh young body flexing and contorting with ease, and he slips between Thor’s legs and darts to the side, catches Gram before she hits the ground and then he’s turning, seeing Thor twist and grab at him and dances aside, sword light as air, pure truth, and he slides it between his brother’s ribs and through his heart in one smooth stroke.

Thor howls like a wounded animal and claws ineffectively at the golden blade erupting from his chest but it’s too late, it’s already happening. Black bile is foaming on his lips and a greasy smog rising from where the blade has pierced him: the poison that has infected him being purged by Gram’s power, the corrosive taint fleeing from his body and soul. Loki has time enough to stroll to his coat, safe and sound and still draped over a chair back, and retrieve his pre-prepared jar and within moments he has captured the filthy muck and can retrieve Gram from his brother’s body with one gentle tug.

Thor collapses to his knees, chest heaving, eyes screwed shut. “Loki,” he says, agony in his voice and face. “My brother. I cannot ask for your forgiveness -”

“For there is nothing to forgive,” Loki says lightly, folding Gram away and running his palm over Thor’s shaking shoulders so he does not have to look at him. “You are healed and yourself once more.”

Thor makes a peculiar noise halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Myself,” he says. “I shall never forgive myself.”

“Oh, try not to be so dramatic,” Loki says, forcing himself to walk away from Thor, contentment leached away by the sour guilt roiling in his gut. “There is no damage done. As your mortals say: no harm, no foul.”

He can feel Thor’s gaze heavy on his back, on his bruised hips and ass, on the come sliding down his legs, but he refuses to meet it, instead reaching down to pick up Thor’s tunic and pull it over his head, determined his movements will be fluid and easy, with no trace of the ache settling in. He would dearly like to curl into Thor, to find comfort and warmth in his embrace, but he cannot face Thor’s tenderness and sorrow. He does not deserve it.

“You are leaving?” Thor says quietly, still knelt on the floor, Loki’s destroyed clothing scattered around him.

“I must take this little jar of wickedness to the All-Mothers,” Loki says cheerfully, his false smile more painful than anything Thor has done to him this night. “It is truly toxic, after all.”

“I see,” Thor says, resigned and hurting, and Loki can’t bear it, he can’t –

“Well, this was one hell of a party,” comes a voice from the doorway. “I suppose my invite got lost in the mail?”

The insufferable Stark and the rest of Thor’s merry little band fill the doorway, doing a poor job of feigning casualness as they take in the scene. Well, it has taken them long enough, Loki thinks wryly. His silencing charm wasn’t _that_ powerful. They must have caught the last of it.

“Go,” Thor says, his attention still focused on Loki. “I will explain.”

“Yeah, so that’s really not -” Stark starts, but the Captain overrules him with a frown.

“Thor?” he asks, stepping closer. “You sure?”

“ _He_ is not the villain here,” Thor says, low and solemn, and a sudden and entirely unwanted shame prickles over Loki’s skin.

“Neither are you,” he says sharply, and with a few quick steps he is back at Thor’s side and pressing against him. “Thor, you were possessed by this,” he says, waggling the jar under his nose. “I knew it, and worked to draw it from you. That is all.”

Thor looks at him and then tenderly reaches out a hand to just skim over Loki’s cheek, a ghost of his usual easy affection.

“We’ll, uh, give you a minute,” the Captain says, and Thor spares a moment to nod his gratitude before turning back to Loki.

“So…are we just ignoring the fact that Bieber-Loki is wearing nothing but Thor’s shirt?” Clint asks plaintively as the Avengers file out. “And Thor is buck-ass nude in our kitchen?”

“It’s Thor and Loki,” Stark says exasperatedly. “Normal parameters just do not apply. I mean, I know family issues are a dime a dozen in this line of work, but frankly -”

Loki stops listening. What do gods care for the opinions of petty mortals?

“Brother,” he says, kissing Thor lightly. “Put this from you. It is over.”

Thor says nothing, but he opens his arms to Loki, as he used to do to the reborn child that Loki murdered, to the young Prince in Asgard before Loki burned, and this Loki, the jagged, misshapen changeling that has survived them both falls into his embrace, clings to him and curls himself into Thor’s lap and lets himself be held.

In but a moment he will have to move, have to spin more lies and dance through their cracks, must complete the other part of his mission and wipe away the records of his older self in the hope that his heart can be rewritten as easily as his past. But for now, he rests, listening to the steady thunder of Thor’s heartbeat, perched on Thor’s lap like a bird upon a mountaintop, poised to take flight but still clinging to the earth.

He cannot say if he is giving or receiving comfort but he knows in his heart, in his flesh and bone and crippled soul that this is where he belongs and where he has the least right to be.

“I love you,” Thor murmurs sadly.

“I know,” Loki says, the truth sharp and bitter on his tongue, and whatever else has changed, this much remains the same: his victories are cold and ash and poison in his veins.


End file.
